


turn the lights down low

by arabesque05



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Gen, Grinding It Out In The Corner: Another Hockey Rare Pairs Fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:12:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabesque05/pseuds/arabesque05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaromir came to Pittsburgh, and--a hundred and four games later--the Cup came to Pittsburgh as well. </p><p>That is how Mario remembers 1990. Jaromir, and the Cup</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn the lights down low

**Author's Note:**

> for the [rarepairs fest prompt](http://hapakitsune.livejournal.com/280297.html?thread=4104681#t4104681): "Mario Lemieux/Jaromir Jagr, we are never ever ever getting back together (but sometimes I still think about you)"

Ray calls one day--early summer, Lauren home from school, the kids out by the pool, Nathalie threatening to eat the entire ice-cream cake if anyone splashed her again, so Mario misses it. Ray leaves a message but doesn't call back. It isn't urgent, then. Mario leaves the message unchecked until after dinner. The kids dogpile themselves in front of the television, Nathalie goes upstairs to call one of her cousins, and Mario retreats into his study. 

The message is normal summer business: extensions, free agency, who to keep and who to get. Ray adds, almost an afterthought (except Mario well knows that nothing regarding the roster is ever an afterthought to Ray): "Also, I wanted to float this by you. What do you think about Jagr coming back to Pittsburgh? Don't know if I can put anything together yet, but just a thought."  
  
Mario lets the phone loop through all the options for saving the message and deleting the message and returning the sender's call, lets it loops twice, before he lowers the phone. Then he calls Ray.   
  
"Whatever you think best," he says, which has always been his policy when it comes to management. Mario trusts Ray to make the right call about Jagr.   
  
Mario never has, himself.  
  
\--  
  
In 1990, there were things of greater import happening in the world than an eighteen-year-old boy, who spoke almost no English, arriving in Pittsburgh. And yet, Jaromir is what Mario remembers of that season--more than the herniated disc, more than the surgery, more than the fifty games he did not play. Not more than the Stanley Cup, but Jaromir was there for that. Jaromir with still peach fuzz on his chin, Jaromir with his ruddy cheeks and ridiculous hair and a smile so wide, his eyes disappeared into it. Jaromir came to Pittsburgh, and--a hundred and four games later--the Cup came to Pittsburgh as well.   
  
That is how Mario remembers 1990. Jaromir, and the Cup.  
  
\--  
  
This is how Mario remembers 2000: coming out of retirement, just as Jaromir was contemplating it. No, Jaromir wasn't contemplating retirement. He was dying alive. No. No, that wasn't right either. Jaromir wasn't dying alive. He was just leaving.   
  
Summer of 2001 was a formality. The truth was writ by blades in ice, that previous winter. A team couldn't have two captains. Mario didn't know how to be anything but; and Jaromir wasn't eighteen anymore.   
  
Just two days after Christmas, and Jaromir's heart was already packed, ready to go.  
  
\--  
  
Mario stayed in Pittsburgh, because--though he did not love the city at first--he learned to. He came to love Pittsburgh, the way he came to love his fourth-liners: moved by their devoted effort, shaken by their plain-hearted earnestness. It was slow going, sometimes. But Pittsburgh stayed by him when he was both well and unwell. There were marriages built on less.  
  
That isn't how Mario loves hockey, though. Mario never had to  _learn_  to love hockey.  
  
\--  
  
Jaromir went to Washington. Jaromir went to New York. Jaromir went to Russia.  
  
No, it wasn't like that. It wasn't that Jaromir was always leaving. The Capitals traded him; so--really--Washington said goodbye first. The Rangers didn't negotiate an extension--so New York said goodbye first, as well. Mario doesn't look at Pittsburgh too hard. Break-ups, amicable or acrimonious, don't need to be rehashed.   
  
\--  
  
It wasn't just Jaromir, that first year, of course. There was Paul, and Bryan as well. Jaromir, in fact, probably spent more time than not getting creamed into the boards that first year.   
  
There was also Hrdina, who Jaromir followed around more than he ever followed Mario. He smiled more easily around Hrdina too, and Mario knew better than to think it only because of a familiarity of language.   
  
Still: Jaromir's cheeks turned red around Mario, and there was something at once bashful and pleased when he did smile. He drove fast cars too fast, and never paid his tickets; but he always listened, when Mario spoke. And sometimes--the sharpness of his turns when rounding the back of the net, the smoothness of how he handled the puck, his  _audacity_ , sometimes, against defenceman--those made it difficult for Mario to look away. He wanted to see what Jaromir would do next. He wanted to show Jaromir how to do it even better. He wanted to see the delight Jaromir had in the game, and he wanted to say,  _Yes, exactly that. That's what hockey's like. That's it._    
  
\--  
  
"Philadelphia," says Ray, when he calls later that summer.  
  
"What a little shit," says Mario, and Ray laughs.  
  
"Probably for the best," he says. "Dan's not even two years older, you know."  
  
"No, don't tell me," says Mario. "God. Is he thirty-nine  _already_?"  
  
"Makes you feel your own age, doesn't it?"  
  
"I hate talking to you," says Mario, and almost means it.  
  
\--  
  
Mario can't sleep. He stares at the ceiling.  _Philadelphia_ , he thinks.  _Jesus Christ. Philadelphia._  
  
Eventually, Mario gives up. He goes downstairs. He calls Jaromir.  
  
"Fuck you," says Jaromir, who answers. It's two in the morning, and he answers. There remain some jagged corners to his words, an accent which twenty years have not managed to sandpaper away.   
  
Mario thinks it wasn't quite anger which prompted him to call.  
  
"Philadelphia," he says, with as much distaste as the word warrants.  
  
"Fuck you, seriously?" says Jaromir. "At two in the morning?"  
  
"You're more honest at two in the morning," says Mario. Or at least, his memories of Jaromir at two in the morning are all almost twenty years old--of being half-asleep on the team bus, swaying gently with the motion of the bus on the highway; head against a cool pane of windowglass; the quiet murmur of teammates behind him, and Jaromir, slack-mouthed with sleep, cheek pressing against the sleeve of Mario's arm. Perhaps "honest" isn't the right word. Mario is simply fonder of him at two in the morning.  
  
"Don't ask me why I didn't choose Pittsburgh," says Jaromir, over the rustling of bedsheets. "Jesus Christ."  
  
"Because you were asking for a ridiculous amount of money," replies Mario. "But... _Philadelphia_."  
  
"Fuck you, old man," says Jaromir. Really, thinks Mario. Jaromir's no spring chicken himself. Then, Jaromir says, "Like hell I'm going back to a place where...where...you fucking get cancer and that kid broke his head and then--...who had the knee--"  
  
"Are you  _frightened_?" asks Mario, incredulous. "Pittsburgh isn't cursed--"  
  
"You fucking wore the devil's number," snaps Jaromir.   
  
Mario thinks for a moment about what to say to that. He settles for, "Are you drunk?"  
  
"I'm hanging up," says Jaromir.  
  
"Goodnight," agrees Mario.  
  
He puts the phone down. He goes up to bed. It might have something to do with the injuries, thinks Mario. Jaromir's thirty-nine, after all, and has to pay attention these sort of things. But that probably wasn't all of it.  
  
No use thinking about it. Jaromir always did as Jaromir pleased. But so did Mario, in the end.   
  
\--  
  
Even when it's not two in the morning, this is how Mario chooses to remember things:   
  
After '91, there had been '92--and Jaromir, a little more grown into himself, but still flush-cheeked, still beaming so wide his eyes curved with it, was still there on the other side of the Cup. Good things came in pairs. They were Stanley Cup Champions twice over. Mario looked at Jaromir, breaking open a bottle of champagne and pouring it into the Cup for Mario. He thought:  _Yes, exactly this. This is how we're supposed to be. Just like this_.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [adistantsun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adistantsun/pseuds/adistantsun) Log in to view. 




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